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But the boy just hugged his teddy bear tighter, his eyes on the floor, without saying a word. I stood to the side, my heart in my throat. “Will he talk again, doctor?” I asked, almost pleading.
The psychologist looked at me with compassion. “Ma’am, he needs time. The shock was too great for a child, but I’m sure he will open up.
I nodded, but inside I couldn’t be calm. Time? I didn’t know how much time I had left to wait with Daniel missing, and every passing day a torture of anguish and pain.
On the morning of the third day, I was cleaning Matthew’s face, gently wiping a damp cloth over his thin cheeks. I tried to smile and started telling him an old story about Daniel—about when he was a boy and broke one of my vases and tried to tape it back together. Your dad was so silly, Matthew, I said softly.
But he loved you more than anything in the world. Matthew didn’t respond, but I saw his little fingers squeeze the teddy bear as if he were clinging to something. I was about to continue when the phone in my purse vibrated.
The caller ID showed the police precinct. My heart pounded. A bad feeling washed over me.
I answered, my hand shaking so much I almost dropped the phone. The detective’s voice on the other end was grave, very different from his usual calm demeanor. “Mrs.
Helen, I need you to prepare yourself. We just used Luminol to re-examine Mr. Daniel’s house, and we found a very large amount of blood in the living room.”
My ears went numb, as if the world had suddenly gone silent.
The washcloth in my hand fell to the floor. I couldn’t feel my own hands. Blood, I repeated, my voice breaking.
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